Polly Blacow: The last Mussel Gatherer of Heysham

by Katherine Gregson

This is some of my childhood memories of Polly Blacow. Polly and her brother, Bob, lived in the cottage at 23 Main Street, Heysham, which was next door to my family home.

To describe Polly, I would say she was a very strong character, not like any other person I have ever met, quite unique, hard working, sometimes I have seen quite frequently carbuncles on her fingers with the hard work she did using tools gathering the mussels, it must have been very painful. She cut strips of cotton material to make bandages to cover the wounds.

Her stature was slightly built, not too tall, dressed always in black with a long apron around her waist, made out of hessian sacks.In those days the sugar came in sacks,no doubt she used this which was available at the local Co-Op nearby. She wore long black wool stockings and always wore clogs. Her hair was tied in a bun at the back. Her face was sun tanned, even in winter, and very much lined with the weather beating down on her, gathering mussels at the local skear every day, winter and summer.

To help her on her travels to the skear was her trusty old horse, Joe, who pulled the cart loaded with the mussels in the bags. Sometimes during the outward journey, the weather would be fine and sunny but the dense fog would come down before she could get back to the slipway in the main street. But old Joe knew the way, his instinct told him which way to go and this must have saved Polly’s life many times during her working life.We know it is treacherous out there, getting lost in the fog, quick sands and with the tide coming in, being surrounded by the oncoming tide.

Polly also had another iron in the fire, so to speak. She had this massive garden with a ten foot wall round it. It was located where we now know as the bus terminus and car park, so you have a good idea of the size of the garden. Her nephew, Mr. Hargreaves, helped in the vegetable garden and I can remember seeing row upon row of potatoes, cabbages, sprouts, peas and beans, also there were many apple trees.

Not to be missed out were the pigs of which she usually had two or three. The pig sty was located at one side of the garden next to the wall. Many neighbours used to fetch for the pigs their potato peelings, which Polly would boil up and mix with bran and water on the old iron fireplace. I have seen her many times giving it a good stir with a big wooden stick in the two very big metal buckets, much larger than they are today. I don’t really know how she managed to carry two full buckets from the cottage to the sty, considering her slightness of build.

As a child, I would ask Polly ‘please can I come and watch you feed the pigs?’ and off I would go with her. I did enjoy this very much because when the pigs heard the rattling of the handles of the buckets they got very excited. They knew food was near. When she opened the gate they would rush at her almost knocking her down to the floor of the sty, and she would curse and swear at them. Of course, this suited me more than ever; it was an adventure to me, all this excitement and the noise of the grunting pigs rushing around.

Polly died in 1950 with a very short illness over four days. My mother stayed in the cottage to look after her, twenty four hours a day. I have never seen such a change in a person after death and I have seen many. Polly was the first person I had seen dead and to my amazement she was completely different from her life image. She looked like she was the sort of old lady who you would expect to see knitting or crocheting in a rocking chair. All the lines on her face were gone; she looked very prim and proper.

After writing about Polly, my thoughts are that during her life she was not recognized for her achievements in her very hard working life, but now through this knowledge, everyone will understand for future years ahead what life was like for a person like Polly.

K. Gregson

11th November 2010